Summer Days (Take Me Away)
by PerfectingSilence
Summary: In which Sherlock solves a case too late, John finds out, and cuddling ensues. Rated T, but is probably actually K. Written for a friend. Johnlock.


_**Title: Summer Days (Take Me Away)**_

_**Rating: T, because I feel like it. It can probably pass as K, but whatever.**_

_**Pairing: Johnlock (pre-established)**_

_**Summary: In which Sherlock solves a case too late, John finds out, and cuddling ensues.**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, or the BBC show. If I did, all that sexual frustration would become a little less frustrating, and a lot more than just subtext.**_

_**Dedication: My dear friend, (I'm not sure if you want your name disclosed, so I won't, but you know who you are) who knows about my obsession with Johnlock and still hasn't run away.**_

_**A/N: This is written for my friend. She wanted a Johnlock fanfic and so I'm giving her one. Wrote the beginning of it in her yearbook, on the last day of school, and now I've rewritten and finished it. A little explanation for the extremely irrelevant and random title: I had the song (from the movie Grease) stuck in my head that day (it was the last day before summer break, after all) and really liked the sound of it. I now know the actual lyrics are "Summer days, drifting away" but I don't much care. Anyways, read, review, enjoy!**_

Sherlock Holmes rarely solved a case too late. It had only happened on two accounts and he had no intentions of repeating the experience again within his lifetime. But you can't escape the inevitable, as a very wise ex-army doctor had once told him. Today, the rare occurrence showed its face again, bringing the toll up to three and adding a tally mark to the other two that already hid in a dark corner of one of the many unfrequented rooms of Sherlock's mind palace.

Though his reactions to most things weren't what one would call normal (usually the exact opposite), when it came to an innocent person dying because of him, the detective experienced the emotions anyone else would. For him, it was mostly guilt, an awful feeling, and definitely one of his least favorite. How he dealt with these emotions, however, was anything but average, and led many to believe he simply didn't have them.

The violin was the most sure-fire way to tell how he was feeling, as John had come to discover over the months. The variety of melodies, tempos, and strings held much more emotion within them than it seemed the man's stoic mask of brilliance ever would. Still, John held on to the hope that one day Sherlock would really begin to open up to him, a conclusion based on limited data, but enough to form a hypothesis on.

It didn't take a heartfelt conversation about feelings for John to figure out that something was amiss when he got home after his shift. The flat was quiet (though that wasn't necessarily unusual) and after trudging up the steps, he found Sherlock sprawled on his back across the couch, hands together under his chin and eyes closed. This, of course, was normal, as Sherlock went to his mind palace often, which seemed to be where he was now.

One of the main things that alerted John to something being off was the lack of papers taking up space on the wall where his flatmate kept things relevant to any current cases. Usually, such documents would be left there for a little while after the case was wrapped up, but today, that was not true. The fact that the detective had wanted to rid the case from his mind so quickly (he couldn't have been back at the flat for long- when they'd texted during John's lunch break he was in the middle of the case) said something. Though, considering John lacked the thought process of a Holmes, it would take more information to figure out _what_ exactly it said.

Rather than try to lure Sherlock out of his brilliant mind, John made himself a cuppa (and Sherlock one, as well, just in case) and waited for the genius to come back to their world on his own accord.

He didn't mind the waiting so much, but couldn't help but be relieved when he heard a deep, "You had a rough day at work," rumble from across the sitting area.

"Yes, I did. It was boring and I'm glad to be home. What did I miss about the case?"

At this, the man didn't seem to have a response ready. Instead, he stayed quiet for a moment before stating simply (and cryptically), "It's better that you weren't there for this one."

"Why? What happened?" Things began to click for John. His earlier guess had been right- something went wrong with the case.

"Deduce it, John." His voice had anger in it (John knew it wasn't directed at him), but said anger was mostly drowned out by a tired tone, and his volume could almost be described as soft. It was terrifying.

And so, John lifted the other man's lower legs and sat in their place, allowing his boyfriend's feet to rest in his lap. He set his hand on a leg and rubbed what he hoped were comforting circles through the fabric with his thumb.

"What went wrong?" His voice was lacking of any annoyance, and conveyed only his attempts to soothe Sherlock's distress.

"Everything."

"I'm sorry, love. Is there anything I can do?"

"... I don't think so. Just…"

"Anything."

"Stay with me?" Sherlock seemed so tiny like this, even with him taking up most of the couch. He asked the question like he was unsure of what John's answer would be, almost like he expected him to deny the request. Rubbish. When John said he'd do anything for him, he bloody well meant it.

"Always." The small gap between Sherlock and the back of the couch called out to John, so he rearranged himself to fill the lonely space. It required a bit of work, but soon enough they were in the desired position: John on his back, left shoulder pressed against the back of the couch, right arm wrapped around the detective, whose head rested on the attached shoulder and chest. John lifted his hand so he could twirl his fingers through the tempting dark curls.

"How bad?" Knowing Sherlock would understand what he was asking, he didn't bother to elaborate.

"Very, very bad." John, of course, got exactly what that meant.

"It's not your fault."

"I'm aware, as I've already been told this by Lestrade, as well as a few others at the Yard. But you and I both know that's a lie; it was indeed my fault and therefore it's only acceptable I take responsibility for what's happened. Even if I denied the truth, what good would it do? I, unfortunately, seem to lack the ability to turn off my emotions when they become inconvenient. The best I can manage to do is either suppress my feelings or wallow in them, and, if you can't tell, I've chosen to do both."

"... You know, people may call you a freak, or a monster, or a machine, or emotionless, but they're wrong, all of them. They don't see this; you don't let them. But now let me assure you that you are none of those things, but rather, the most human, _human_ being I've ever met."

"It's painful."

"Yes, it's supposed to be. But it's also so beautiful, _you_ are so beautiful."

"... It's your fault. I wasn't like this before you."

"I know." And he does, knows who Sherlock was before, who he is now. He hasn't changed, not really. Because John would never _try_ to change Sherlock, would be disgusted with himself if he did. All the doctor did was get under his cold exterior and get him to drop all the barriers he put up to protect himself. A lot of them are still there, and some may never go away, but that's okay. The person Sherlock is now is enough for John (the person Sherlock was when they met was enough, even), anything extra is just a lucky bonus.

"John?"

He replied with a quiet, "Hmm?" to let him know he was listening.

"... Thank you."

With these words (words he seldom heard from his love, once never even expected to hear from him), another barrier, even if just a small one, was let go of and allowed to dissolve into the air they shared. John pulled Sherlock closer to him and rested his chin atop the curls his fingers had been exploring, before they again found their rightful place at Sherlock's waist.

"You're welcome," he whispered, and together they stared at the ceiling, entangled on the couch, until they both drifted to sleep.

_**Thanks for reading!~**_


End file.
